Therapy
by OrangeZest100
Summary: I wrote this to deal with "The Reichenbach Fall".  Some dark depression.  Can be read as either slash or friendship.


**AN: **"Reichenbach Fall" spoilers ahead.

He touched the cold marble, though it might have been onyx for all he knew. All he knew was that it was black and it seemed so fitting and so disgustingly wrong at the same time. He hadn't really cried yet somehow. Sherlock, his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, was dead. He shook his head briefly, minutely, and he waited for it, that deep voice that asked what was wrong because its owner didn't understand him. He choked back a sob. This couldn't be happening, he couldn't really be gone, he couldn't have jumped off of that building, he didn't receive that phone call, he didn't watch, the man wasn't a fraud, because it was unacceptable…all of it. He couldn't look at anyone, not really, not in a proper sufficient way. He had only talked with Mrs. Hudson twice. He had heard nothing from Mycroft. The only thing he had gotten from Lestrade was the information that Moriarty was gone as well. The only person he seemed able to hold a conversation with was Molly Hooper, because she didn't expect him to talk about what happened. It seemed like she would be okay with him never talking about it ever again. John couldn't even say his friend's name. "One more miracle, Sherlock for me. Don't be… dead. Would you… just for me. Just stop it. Stop this." His voice broke at the last. He turned and walked away, not noticing the figure watching him. Things might have been better if he had, but as always he didn't observe.

It only took him a couple weeks to stop seeing his therapist. She wanted him to talk and he couldn't talk. She didn't like 'no' as an answer. He never could stay at 221 B Baker Street. He was only able to stay in thirty minute pain filled increments before he was screaming and crying uncontrollably, not able to see anything at all. He had tried once. No one had dared retrieve him during the screaming after he almost strangled Donovan in a pain filled rage. They only came up when all noise ceased, finding him catatonic on the floor, not awake, not asleep, staring into space muttering 'idiot' over and over in breathless whispers. With Molly's help he managed to collect his things and move into a flat across from her, but it always seemed empty, cold and so terribly empty. The only keepsake he could manage was the skull. He had replaced it so many ages ago in his friend's eyes. Now it had a purpose again. He couldn't work at the hospital. He could never really breathe properly in there and whenever he saw an injury he would flashback to a case….some mark on a body or an injury on himself or an injury on the man himself. He was finally able to observe some. The last straw for the hospital was when he started screaming at a mother about her affair. He wasn't even sure how he knew, but he did. So he stayed at home, but it was empty, no intellect filling the room, no phones ringing, no smiley face on the wall, no violin at three in the morning, no hiding drugs, no arguing over stealing weapons, no one 'acquiring' his laptop, no pickpocketing Lestrade, no insulting Mycroft's bureaucracy.

He raided a shop once, coming back to the new flat with a microscope, beakers, chemicals, a bunch of science stuff. He kept it all haphazardly on dining table. Then there were the eyes he put in the microwave. Then there were the fingers and heads he would put in the fridge. Then there was the talking to the skull, recounting the times of the past with the violin, the cases, and the different settings. There were never any new posts on his blog. What was the point? There was nothing to write about. Molly came by every so often to see how he was, making sure he remembered food and hadn't overdosed on nicotine patches. He almost never slept, and though he never really saw any one but Molly they were all watching him, looking out for him, worried about his health, so when he started disappearing away from the flat for days on end and he never seemed normal, even his new normal, they noticed. They staged an intervention. He was woken by a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry John," said Molly quietly. "I couldn't change their minds." He sat up to find them in his house: Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson, Molly, Harry, and Mycroft.

"What," he sighed quietly, just loud enough for them to hear. He wrapped his arms around his skinny legs, little of the military man remaining in muscle, and in some ways, in mind.

"You have to stop this," said Lestrade. "You're hurting yourself John."

"No, I'm not."

"John, I saw _him_ go through it. I know what drug abuse looks like John. Oh please won't you let us help you," Mrs. Hudson begged, tears already in her eyes. He didn't answer.

"He's not coming back," said Mycroft silently and John's eyes suddenly shown with light.

"Don't you think I know that," he screamed. "You're the one who told Moriarty about his past, and you," he waved his hand wildly at the Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson, "didn't believe him, and you Mrs. Hudson. You gave all his stuff away and Molly wasn't even at his funeral." With that the fire disappeared as soon as it had come. "I had to hear his voice," he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. "I had to watch him jump. I saw his body on the ground." Nobody said anything for a long time, not even in protest to his accusations. It was sad, to see someone who had so much confidence, so much strength inside and out, reduced to this, a shell of his formal self, barely able to function as a person anymore.

"John you can come live with me. We can get clean together, how about that?" John snorted.

"Nice try with the bribe Harriet, you've been clean for three months." The others glanced at each other, knowing that John hadn't seen _any_ of them in three months. "Mycroft here, on the other hand, is barely sober. I see that Anderson not leaving his wife hasn't stopped you yet Donovan." They all stared at him. "I see Molly has got a new boyfriend, how nice, except that he has two wives and a weakness for cocaine. Mrs. Hudson is gambling I see, not really the greatest way to forget I guess, but who am I to judge. Lestrade seems to be going through a divorce, judging from his nails…"

"Sherlock stop it," screamed Mrs. Hudson, instantly covering her mouth but the damage was done. John rubbed at his eyes before using his hands to cover his ears. Shutting his eyes together tightly, he started rocking back and forth muttering 'idiot' to himself again, not acknowledging anyone.

"Out," said Molly resolutely, pointing at the door, not doing anything until everyone had left. She slumped and looked at John who was now staring into space as he muttered and rocked. She made tea, setting it beside John on the bed. She called in sick to work. She went through the entire flat, cleaning the entire place of drugs, throwing them into a trash bag. She dragged it out the door behind her as she left, leaving John to his cooling tea and skull. Molly made a phone call as she handed the bag to Lestrade. John awoke in the middle of the night after half an hour of sleep, pale and sweating, feeling like he couldn't breathe.

"John…" The man flinched, throwing a flashlight at the sound of the noise, curling into a ball.

"Go away. You're not real, just like every other time. You're not real."

"I'm sorry John."

"You always say that." John bit back a sob again, wishing that he hadn't let Molly clean out the entire flat. He flinched when the light turned on, briefly blinding him. John decided to keep his eyes closed.

"I mean it John." John shook his head. "John…" The voice was closer and he opened his eyes to be greeted by dark hair, high cheekbones, and clear blue eyes.

"No, nonononono…" John pushed himself against the wall closing his eyes and placing his eyes over his ears.

"You couldn't at least try to keep to low tar cigarettes? If nothing else you could have lived a little longer before you decided to overdose on heroin. I wouldn't have guessed heroin as your drug of choice. You seemed more like a marijuana or cocaine type of bloke." John's eyes shot open but the man was facing away from him, studying the skull. The male was wearing the jacket, the exact same type of jacket, the collar popped up, and a faint sliver of pale neck visible before you encountered the dark hair. "I see you replaced my lab equipment."

"No," John muttered, less conviction in his voice. "You can't be real."

"You really kept the _skull_? You couldn't at least save my violin? It'll be hard to replace that."

"You can't just _do_ this!" John screamed. "You can't be real because you just can't _do_ this, jump off a building with me watching and leave me with these people then show back up after _ages_…" John's voice broke and he squeezed his eyes and lips shut as he tried not to cry.

"John…" John shook his head. "John. John!" John was shaken roughly and he opened his eyes to find Sherlock's face spaces from his own. "You really think I was going to let Moriarty win like that?" John reached out a hand, one hesitant shaking hand, and after many moments of uncertainty and pauses, his fingers touched the man's face. Then he was crying, muttering over and over again 'alive' and Sherlock hugged him, almost cradling John in his chest. What else could he do? He abandoned his only friend after faking his own suicide. Molly walked in an hour later to see them calmly drinking tea, just kind of staring at each other.

"Finally," she muttered, not loud enough for either of them to hear. "It took you long enough to show yourself to him."

**AN:** This was kind of my "Reichenbach Fall" therapy. I was freaking out about the episode so I wrote about the reunion. It seemed appropriate.


End file.
